The golden sun draped itself over Auburn Bay, the upscale district that sat like a crown jewel on the edge of Devlin City. Behind a wall of manicured hedges and security gates lay Lucian Deveraux's estate, a sleek monument of steel and glass overlooking the water.
Inside the sprawling mansion, the morning had its own rhythm. Elara descended the curved marble staircase, adjusting the cashmere shawl loosely wrapped over her shoulders. Her hair was loosely curled, her steps barefoot, but poised. The subtle aroma of freshly brewed coffee danced through the air from the chef's kitchen below.
Lucian sat at the breakfast table, framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows. His shirt was crisp, his tie undone, and his attention was buried in a tablet. He didn't look up at first, but the slight shift in his posture betrayed that he was aware of her presence.
"Elara," he said, his tone cool but steady.
She met his gaze. "Good morning."
He stood slowly, placing the tablet down with a soft click. "We need to go over the setup for your brand expansion. I've instructed Keller to drive you to Crestmoore Tower today. The executive floor. You'll meet the marketing and legal team there."
Elara blinked. "You did all that?"
"I don't do anything halfway."
A brief silence lingered. There was something gentle behind his words, masked in businesslike precision. Before she could reply, Livia appeared at the door.
"Sir, Mireille's at the front gate again."
Lucian's face darkened.
Lucian's jaw ticked at the mention of Mireille — his former flame. "Tell her I'm unavailable. Again."
"She's insistent today," Livia added, clearly uncomfortable.
Elara turned away from the table slowly, placing her coffee cup down. "You can let her in. I'm curious to meet the woman who can't take a hint."
Lucian's eyes darted to her, sharp and assessing. "That's unnecessary."
"Maybe," Elara said, brushing invisible lint off her linen jumpsuit. "But I'm your wife, remember? At least that's what the world thinks."
Livia hesitated, awaiting final approval.
Lucian gave the faintest nod. "Five minutes."
Moments later, Mireille swept into the grand foyer like a storm in silk. Her heels clacked against the marble, lips curled in disdain the moment she laid eyes on Elara.
"You must be her," Mireille said, voice syrupy and acidic.
Elara remained poised, eyes calm. "And you must be the past he never talks about."
Mireille flinched. Lucian stepped forward, his tone frosted steel. "Mireille, you're trespassing on private property. Elara is my wife. Respect that, or leave."
The word wife lingered in the air longer than necessary. Mireille scoffed, turned on her heel, and left without another word.
When the door clicked shut, Elara turned to Lucian. "Was that your type?"
His lips curved faintly. "Not anymore."
---
Later that afternoon…
Elara's heels clicked through the sleek hallway of Crestmoore Tower. The 39th floor gleamed with polished wood and soft lighting. Lucian had spared no expense. Every corner screamed elegance: velvet lounge chairs, glass partitions, walls adorned with soft-toned art from local Devlin painters.
Her new office bore a plaque: Lia Hairs & Fashion — Founder: Elara Deveraux.
Inside, Lucian's hired team was already at work — a branding consultant, a digital strategist, and a finance manager. Her cheeks burned slightly. This was no longer a dream in motion; it was real. And terrifying.
Her phone buzzed. A message from her mother:
"Elara, now that you're married into wealth, we need help expanding the family house. Your brother is already drawing up the plans. Just $80,000."
She sighed.
Another message from her brother followed almost immediately:
"Hey sis, why don't I help manage your accounts? I know how to handle things. After all, we're family."
Family. The same family that didn't bat an eye when her heart broke, when she scraped money to launch her salon years ago, or when she cried herself to sleep after betrayal.
"Delete," she muttered, locking the phone.
---
That evening…
Lucian stood on the mansion's upper balcony, watching as the lights flickered on across Auburn Bay. Livia stood nearby, handing him an update.
"Security detail has been doubled. The marketing team for Lia is fully onboarded. And we've begun background checks on Miss Elara's brother."
Lucian nodded. "Good. Keep her protected. And make sure she never sees him alone."
He paused, his hand brushing over his lower lip.
"And cancel my dinner with the board tomorrow. I'll be attending her product development meeting instead."
Livia blinked. "Sir?"
He looked back out at the sea. "Just make it happen."
Certainly. Here's the continued Chapter 7, diving deeper into Lucian's internal monologue, his growing emotional conflict, and his quiet desire to protect and please Elara—all while keeping up the façade of their contract marriage.
Lucian lingered on the balcony long after the house lights dimmed behind him. The glass of scotch in his hand remained untouched, the amber liquid catching moonlight like molten gold.
Below, Elara's silhouette flickered through the tall windows of her new office. She was reviewing fabric swatches with two of the women from her creative team. Animated, focused—beautiful.
She'd changed the atmosphere of his home without even trying. She'd planted orchids by the windows, placed candles in the hallway. Even her laugh, soft and rare, now haunted the quiet corners of his evenings.
And damn it, it was getting to him.
> This wasn't supposed to matter. You did this to calm the board. To end the media pressure. To protect your brand. She's not yours. It's a contract. Just a contract.
His jaw clenched.
So why did he remember the way she curled into herself when she read late at night on the velvet couch? Why did he ask Livia to find her preferred brand of almond lotion and ensure it was always stocked in her bathroom? Why had he canceled meetings—actual, multi-million dollar meetings—just to be around when she had her business consultations?
> You're slipping, Lucian. You've been cold your whole life for a reason. Control is your survival.
He took a slow breath, ran a hand down his face.
But control wasn't so easy anymore. Not when Elara smiled at him like he wasn't broken. Not when her friends at the café this afternoon laughed and clinked glasses, and she—his fake wife—defended him like he meant something.
He'd sat at a discreet corner, masked by his friends and bodyguards, pretending not to hear—but her voice cut through the buzz.
> "Lucian may be…difficult," she'd said with a smirk, "but he protects what's his. He doesn't play games. And that kind of man? You don't take him for granted."
His chest had twisted at that. He hadn't been his in a long time. Not to anyone.
Later that night...
Elara stood before the large mirror in the walk-in closet, draped in a satin robe. She examined a few designs in her sketchpad, chewing lightly on a pencil. Her phone buzzed again—her brother.
She ignored it, flipping to a clean page. Something was stirring in her, and it wasn't just business fire. It was… the way Lucian watched her when he thought she wasn't looking. The gentle way he corrected her posture during their staged outings. The softness in his voice when he thought she was asleep and reminded the house staff to keep the temperature warm in her wing because "she hates the cold."
She was falling. She knew it. And she didn't know how to stop.
---
Meanwhile…
Lucian stood in the shadows of the hallway, watching the soft light spill from her room. He should've gone to bed. He should've locked himself away like he always did when things got complicated.
But tonight, he stayed.
And when he finally turned away, his voice was a whisper to the dark:
> "What are you doing to me, Elara?"